The Busy & the Tired
by randomsquare
Summary: Based on a tumblr prompt by @the-savior-and-the-pirate. Teacher AU where Emma is a long-term high school sub and Killian offers to give her pointers. She declines, but realizes she needs it like 5 min. into her first class


**A/N: Based on a tumblr prompt by the-savior-and-the-pirate. Maybe not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you like it all the same.**

* * *

 _Teacher AU where Emma is a long-term high school sub and Killian offers to give her pointers. She declines, but realizes she needs it like 5 min. Into her first class_

* * *

Another day, another dreary suburban high school staff room serving up mediocre coffee and a sad selection of middle aged educators in desperate need of a holiday.

Being a sub hadn't exactly been Emma's dream job. When she'd first graduated she'd had notions of changing lives. Inspiring the next generation. Saving the world, one Shakespeare quote at a time. Suffice to say, things hadn't quite worked out that way.

Now she bounced from one school to another, wherever she was needed. AP English teacher ran off to Mexico with her boyfriend? No problem. Creative Writing teacher comes down with a rare case of meningococcal? Emma was your girl.

It suited her, she thought, a life in constant motion. She'd never exactly been the type to stay in one place all that long. And now she'd never have to fall into that familiar teacher trap of getting attached to her students, only to have them graduate and move on to bigger and better things. This way, she would always beat them to the punch.

Plus it paid better.

The gig at Storybrooke High would be a cinch. A week in a small beach town, just a short scenic drive up to coast. Storybrooke itself looked like it had jumped straight out of a tourist brochure, all small town charm and vintage furniture shops. None of the urban blight you got further South.

The school was small, the teachers having already formed a tight clique, if the giggling over by the coffee pot was to be believed. Emma didn't mind. She wasn't there to make friends. Instead she took out the meticulous notes her predecessor had left her, handwritten on a yellow legal pad with cheerful comments in the margins. Apparently her eleventh grade class had just finished reading The Great Gatsby, and were preparing to write a paper about the symbolic implications of the ending. Poor kids.

"Need any tips, lass?" Startled by the sudden intrusion of someone into her personal space, Emma lurched forward in her seat, knocking over her foam cup of coffee. She could only watch on in horror as the subpar brew seeped into every last paper before her, their contents lost forever.

"Christ!" said the interloper, rushing forward with a roll of kitchen towel. "I'm so sorry, love." He mopped at the mess uselessly, but it was too late. The damage had been done. Every last lesson plan for the week, gone in an instant.

"Are you crazy?" Emma asked, whirling around to confront her saboteur. "Who just goes up to someone and-"

Okay, so he was hot. Scruffy and dark, the way she tended to like them. A form-fitting vest worn over a T-shirt served to highlight rather nice biceps. All perfectly rounded out by the self-satisfied smirk which appeared when he realized why she'd stopped yelling.

The giggling around the coffee pot made sense now, in hindsight.

"My apologies," he said, though the flash of white teeth was hardly contrite. "I was only trying to be helpful. I know first days in a new school can be… challenging."

For a brief moment she almost believed it. Like he might really know what it was like, always being the odd one out, never quite fitting in. And then she caught his wandering gaze, and her thoughts turned sour.

"I think you've helped enough, don't you?" Emma snarked, pulling the last few ruined pages from his grasp. "If you'll excuse me, I have a lesson to give, on the fly."

She pushed past him just as the bell rang for first period.

* * *

Okay, so The Great Gatsby was always going to be a hard sell for well-off kids raised on virtuous superheroes and Hollywood endings.

"It's just so pointless," a girl shouted from the back. "Nobody learned anything. The Buchanans got away with everything. Gatsby died. Nick Carraway becomes an alcoholic. It sucked," she concluded, crossing her arms over her chest in emphasis of her point.

A chorus of agreement.

"But isn't that how life really works?" Emma countered, opening up the discussion. "In real life, you don't get a happily ever after. You get jobs, bills, divorce, old age. And it _does_ suck. And maybe things don't work out. Maybe your first love _does_ leave you to take the fall for their crime."

She didn't realize how quiet it had gotten until the quiet boy in front row piped up.

"Are you alright, Miss Swan?"

It was then she noticed the tear, tracking down her face.

"Sorry," she said, wiping at her cheek with her hand. "I just… You should look closer. No, things aren't alright in the end. Yes, it's confronting, and scary, but that's also life. And that's what makes this book such a masterpiece. Beneath all the fancy parties and green lights and symbolic resonance, it's still just a book about people. And they might be awful, selfish, naive people. But that's what makes them real."

* * *

He found her loitering by her car at recess, puffing on a furtive cigarette. She dropped it as soon as he popped into view between the cars, grinding out the evidence with the sole of her shoe.

"You know, Fitzgerald wrote a story about a smoker once," he began, unprompted, pulling a pack of Camel Lights from his own pocket. He offered her one, and after a moment's hesitation she took it.

"Thanks."

He lit her cigarette for her, their hands brushing one anothers' as they fought to keep the tiny flame alive.

She thought she might like him better close up. The roguish smile was gone now, his expression etched with the kind of exhaustion that only a class full of ninth graders could bring. There were dark circles under his eyes, purple and long suffering, and the hint of a scar across one cheek. The lingering scent of his aftershave caught in Emma's throat as she stepped away.

"I heard things got a little intense during AP English," he said, after savoring his first drag.

She looked up at him sharply. "You heard?"

"The Principal's son is in your class. He likes to talk. Often, and at length." Emma almost smiled at that.

"It's nothing," she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You know how it is. Sometimes you get a little…" _Carried away_ , she wanted to say, but the words died on her lips.

"Aye," he said, with an almost rueful smile. "I know how it is."

"So who are you, anyway?" Emma asked, as she took her final drag, the sound of the warning bell reverberating off the line of parked cars. "What do you do here apart from sabotage lesson plans and sneak out for cigarettes?"

"Where are my manners?" he said, proffering a hand in her direction. "Killian Jones, Head of English."

 _She might've known._

"Emma Swan," she replied, taking his hand in hers. "Sub."

He laughed then, an unexpectedly hearty thing. "Aye, so I see. And how are you liking Storybrooke so far?"

Emma considered the man before her, his hand warm against her own, an entirely different animal from the cocky son of a bitch she'd encountered earlier.

"It's growing on me."


End file.
